Charlie's Requiem: Democide

by Walt Browning

  With the decision made, John decided to get an early start on things. And although he moved with a little less steam this morning, it was a determined and righteous man that finally emerged from his apartment.

  It was still early, too early for most of his fellow DHS officers to have reported. John strolled across to headquarters, purposely avoiding the parking lot where Brie’s body was left. Hoping someone else would find her, he entered the building and went to the cafeteria to grab some coffee and food.

  There was only a smattering of officers sitting around the large hall when he sat down at an empty table. The clock over the exit showed that it was only 6:15, and their roll call wasn’t for another hour. John nursed his cup of java, steam rising from the mug. He had to think of a way to get Natasha involved without hurting her feelings. Searching for a woman would put him in a delicate position.

  If only there was a way, I could see a list without actually asking for her by name? He mused. He ran through different scenarios including a little B&E (Breaking and Entering), but rejected them all. He had little time to make a solid plan. Charlie, Jorge and the others weren’t in a safe place, and John didn’t want to wait any longer than he had to.

  About 7 a.m., the room started to fill. More DHS officers entered, most taking a seat and dispensing with their meals in rapid time. John watched as two of the officers sat at a table next to him. One black and one white, they joined two other men for their meal.

  “Well, if it isn’t the brothers from a different mother!” One of the table dwellers smirked as the two sat down.

  “Piss off!” One of them spat back.

  John took note of the two, their nametags visible before they plopped into the metal-backed chairs. After he saw their names, he cracked a smile when he saw they were both named “Clark.”

  Suddenly, a light bulb popped and John knew just what to do.

  After roll call, Bru and John started walking to their M-ATV.

  “Hey Bru,” John said slyly. “I got to run a quick errand.”

  Agent Bruner smiled when he saw John enter the administration office. John had broken down and mentioned Natasha the day before, and Dixon Bruner was not a friend that would keep his partner from an errand like that.

  “Got you covered,” Bruner said. “Meet you at the truck.”

  John gave the man a nod and entered the admin office. Looking around, he quickly spotted Natasha.

  “Hey girl,” John whispered as he quietly walked to her desk.

  “Hey,” she quietly replied. “Some party, huh?”

  “Yeah,” he said back. “And it’s still with me if you want to know the truth.”

  “Same here,” she shot back.

  John noticed that she had less makeup on and her overall appearance was much more subdued. That suited him just fine, but it could just as well have been that she was still hung over and didn’t take the time to put on all the pancake and mascara that he first saw her with.

  “You look awful good,” he said. “I like the look.”

  John remembered telling her toward the end of the night, after too many adult beverages, that she looked much better with less makeup. In reply, she had taken out some rouge and highlighted John’s cheekbones. That got him some catcalls from some of the other guys. Likely, John would be hearing about it sometime today.

  “I remember,” she said. “You don’t like too much, what was it you called it? Oh yeah! Too much war paint!”

  “Huh? Did I say that?”

  “Uh, yeah you did. I guess a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts!”

  “Well, I was right.” John concluded.

  “Then, other than coming to see if I took your fashion advice, what can I do for you today Agent Drosky?”

  “How about a real date,” he replied. Buttering her up could only help, and he did enjoy her company. She was fun, attractive and had a good sense of humor. Regardless of his guilt over his privileged status, he wasn’t going to blame her for it.

  Natasha raised her eyebrows in surprise.

  “Usually, they wait a few days before they text,” she said. “But I guess with cell service down, we have to cut to the chase.”

  “How about tomorrow night? I’ll cook at my apartment.”

  “You cook, Agent Drosky? Did you scrounge up some TV dinners, or are we having some cereal by candlelight?”

  “How about a pork roast with cabbage and beets.”

  “Really?” She surprisingly replied.

  “Horse-traded with some of the cooks here in the cafeteria.”

  “What did you trade for it with?” She asked hesitantly.

  “Information.” John said back. “The only thing I can give. One of the cooks lived on the west side and he asked me to check on some people. One of them is his mother. That’s why I came in. I need to find a couple of people and see if they have been relocated.”

  “I don’t know, John. You aren’t supposed to have access to that list.”

  “Yeah, but you can. Can I give you some names? Just three. And you can let me know if we have them at any of the relocation camps. He just wants to see if they are alright, and where they are.”

  Natasha hesitated for a moment, then smiled.

  “No problem, John. Let’s have those names.”

  John brought out a list of three names, two of them legitimate names of the relatives of the cook he had bartered with. The third was different all together.

  “Let’s see,” Natasha said. “Carmen Fuentes and Stella Fuentes, Anderson Road, Orlando.”

  She typed into her laptop, hitting several of the function keys and waited.

  “Sorry John,” she said. “No record of anyone with that name. But the database is a day or two old. I’ll try again this afternoon. Stop back in when you return and I’ll let you know if they show up.”

  “Thanks, Nat.” he replied.

  Natasha stopped and stared at John. “What did you call me?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” John replied. “Natasha, not Nat. I’m sorry.”

  “No, that’s alright,” she said gloomily. “I just haven’t heard that name in a while.”

  “Is it OK? Or should I use Natasha?”

  “No, Nat’s fine. Someday I’ll tell you the story. I like Nat.” She smiled sadly.

  “Then “Nat” it is.” He concluded. “Oh, and what about the third one?”

  “Just a minute, let me check.”

  Nat typed in the information Jorge had given to him, and after a few seconds, John saw disappointment once again.

  “I’m sorry, John, but we don’t have a Mark de la Hoya in the system” She said with a smile. “Who is he?”

  “The cook’s step-brother,” John said back. “The other two are his mother and sister.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” John innocently asked.

  Natasha glanced sideways at her officemates; and seeing them busy with their own work, she rotated the screen for John to see.

  Agent Drosky glanced down at the list and verified that, indeed, there was no Mark de la Hoya. But just above where that name would have appeared, was Maria de la Hoya. The brief bio staring back at him confirmed her date of birth and last known address. She was at the Fairgrounds, section B7, tent 5.

  “Well, tell him we’re zero for three, but I might get lucky when they update the database.”

  “I’ll check back this afternoon. And thanks, Nat.”

  When John had seen two men with the same last name at breakfast, it dawned on him that if he had Natasha search for another de la Hoya, Maria’s name might come up in the database as well. It was a bit risky, but it paid off.

  He gave her a wink, eliciting a flush of red on her ivory white cheeks. Natasha turned away quickly and John used the cha
nce to leave the office and join his partner for another long day of what was rapidly becoming traffic control. Only this traffic was people, and it was draining his soul. But at least John knew what his next step was; and it was all about to seal his future, one way or the other.

  John quickly made his way to the parking lot, and was relieved to find that someone had picked up Brie’s body. The empty parking space he had placed her in was once again empty.

  “Well,” Bru said as John approached the M-ATV.

  “Well,” John replied. “Let’s patrol, then we need to stop at the Fairgrounds.”

  “I won’t ask,” Bru stated. “You’re driving.”

  Good, John thought. A partner with a sense of loyalty. Didn’t question the call, and doesn’t seem inclined to ask. Dixon Bruner just got placed one more rung higher on John’s trust ladder. With his headache a faded memory, and a crisp sunny morning in front of them, John felt significantly lighter than just four hours ago. But the image of Brie lying in his bed still haunted him. It wasn’t going to go away until John learned the truth about all of this, and the Fairgrounds were the perfect place to start.

  Chapter 12

  A woman is like a tea bag – you can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water

  — Eleanor Roosevelt

  Maria didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all. Ever since she arrived at the facility, as DHS liked to call it, she had been the focus of an ever increasing amount of unwanted attention. Agents in charge of the cafeteria, agents in charge of the recreation tent and even one female agent in charge of the shower and bathroom facilities had all been hinting at the special benefits she could have if she wanted to spend a little time with them. So far, the pressure had been subtle, but this morning at breakfast, the director of food services had openly propositioned her. Promises of better quality food and even alcohol were given in exchange for, what was the term he used? “A beneficial date” he called it. Friends with benefits! He was more like a fiend with benefits. The fat, sloppy pig of a man looked like he hadn’t missed a meal since well before the lights went out.

  Not that Maria would have ever traded herself for favors; she was a long way from going down that road. But the lingering thought that the situation may deteriorate, forcing her to make some unwanted choices, troubled her deeply.

  Would there be a time that I would willingly do that? She thought.

  She gave that idea a brief consideration and quickly decided that this line of thinking went nowhere good. It had only been a little over a week, and she already saw a number of women aligning with some of the camp’s administrators. Apparently, these women thought that getting in the game early would increase their chances with their supervisors. But Maria wasn’t going to let that happen to her.

  She had thought about getting out of there; but it was plainly evident that once you came in, you didn’t leave. There was no “Get out of Jail” card at Camp Fairgrounds. Armed guards walking the perimeter with German Shepherds ensured compliance with the rules. Several large trucks with machine guns flanked the main road into the large fenced-in park. She even heard a high-pitched roar from beyond the fence that one of the other women, who had been in the military, said was a “tracked” vehicle. This woman swore it was a tank rolling down the road just out of their line of sight.

  When she first arrived, having walked from her downtown apartment, she went through Camp Fairground’s orientation session. They were told that the roaming agents and their dogs were there to keep them safe. But several times people attempted to leave the facility and were rebuffed strongly by the agents manning the gate. The armed sentries patrolling the perimeter were drawn to the commotion created when these folks and their families tried to leave.

  Maria sat on her cot, a military folder that fit her trim frame well enough. But some of the larger women in the 58-person tent were complaining that the frames were pinching them, cutting off their blood flow and causing bruising and numbness, as their arms and legs hung over the edges of the canvas and metal beds. Not her problem, she thought.

  She slid a box out from under the cot; it held all her remaining earthly belongings. Several changes of clothing, her issued toiletry kit, a few pieces of jewelry and two pictures occupied the plastic storage bin. One was a family shot taken last Christmas. Her parents and siblings were all standing in front of their church, while her Abuelita, whom she called “Lita,” sat in front of them all. Confined to a wheelchair, her little grandmother still radiated love and strength, even as Parkinson’s slowly robbed her of her dignity.

  The second photo was of her love, Jorge. The lines at the corner of his eyes crinkled and his angular, strong jaw jutted out. The picture of the two of them, taken in a boat on his backyard lake, was just three months old. They had just finished jetting across Lake Conway; and as the speed boat danced and skipped across the lake’s smooth surface, it had brought a fine spray off the glassy water that cooled them both. It had been a welcome relief from the summer’s heat. She remembered that day, the day when Jorge first asked her about decorating one of the rooms in his new house. It was the first sign he had more than just casual plans for the two of them. She was so excited, but couldn’t allow Jorge to see her joy. She remembered going home and calling one of her friends, and the two of them talked on the phone for over an hour. They both acted like teenagers, reminding her of the old times 10 years prior, when they had been the best of high school friends. She stared at his face as his broad smile beamed back at her and sighed.

  Now, the world was forever changed. Things that mattered just a few weeks ago didn’t count for anything now; and as she reviewed her years on this earth, she realized what was truly essential in her life. With most of her jewelry gone, all her designer clothes rotting in some box in a storage room and her late model Honda Accord a dead piece of metal, she realized that only two things really mattered, her family and her Jorge. God, she missed them all.

  After a few moments of self-pity, Maria took a deep breath. It could be worse, she thought. I’m fed and safe for now. But for how long?

  Maria sat on her cot along with all of the women assigned to the tent. They were present for afternoon roll call.

  Several of the cots nearby were now empty with clean linens and a newly pressed cotton blanket folded neatly on the foot of the bed. The former occupants had been re-located after they had been interviewed by the facility’s management. Every day about this time, several camp guards would accompany an administrator as she made her rounds to each tent. Although not specifically spelled out in her intake form, it was evident that the Fairgrounds was a holding area. A few of her fellow refugees returned from their interviews but many never came back. With the constant flow of full busses coming in and out of the camp, it looked like many were being reassigned to wherever the government had deemed to send them.

  Then, like clockwork, four female guards accompanying a female administrator, entered the tent.

  “ANGELINO, BANNER, BOWERS, CARRINGTON, DE LA HOYA!” The woman cried out to the assembled group.

  The five women all raised their hands as the agent checked off their names on her tablet. She continued in groups of five until she had all of them accounted for.

  “All right,” she concluded. “The following people please step forward. Angelino, Carrington, Edwards, Rose and Waterman.”

  The five women stepped up, each glancing apprehensively at each other, and they were led away. Maria looked about and noticed that there were only about twenty of her original group left. The rest were newcomers that had just arrived over the last four days.

  Maria did the math and realized she only had another day or so left before she would be processed. It was a sobering thought. They would have another roll call after dinner tonight and another five would be led away. She was bound to be sent off by the next day. Processing five women at each after-meal-ro
ll call, left a maximum of four more meals before she was gone. But gone where? No one knew because no one had ever returned once they had been reassigned.

  After roll call, Maria had the freedom to move about the camp, at least in the women’s section. She wandered over to the new recreation facility where she could at least find some mind-numbing activities to hold her over until dinner.

  The former fairgrounds had a number of fixed structures along with the hundreds of tents erected by DHS. Included in the mix was a 50,000 square foot open pavilion which sat at the back of the property and abutted Lawne Lake, a 150-acre urban body of water that marked the northern boundary of the fairground. As Maria approached the pavilion to find the recreation section, she noticed a massive amount of activity on the lake’s left or western bank. Earthmovers were bulldozing trees and leveling the city park which sat just northwest of the fairgrounds. She could see a large, chain-linked fence being erected and connected to the camp’s own partition. They were expanding, and doing it quickly. Maria did some mental calculations and realized that the number of people DHS was going to have to process was too large to grasp.

  Once at the pavilion, she noticed the changes that had already occurred in the last week. Cattle pens and other cages had been removed and partitions were erected within. A maze of cubicles and three walled rooms now occupied the space formerly used to judge a variety of farm animals and oversized vegetables.

  Generators growled along the back of the pavilion, providing power to the people within. Giant electric lines lay on the ground, snaking their way throughout the facility. Threshold-like ramps lay over these heavy gauge, rubber-coated conduits, allowing people to walk without stumbling over the electric wires. Makeshift electric poles about ten feet high provided smaller electric lines and computer cabling a means of travelling overhead. Even with limited lighting and minimal fan use, the strain on the generators was massive.